“I’ll buy you a whole case of hemorrhoid cream”
“I’ll have to get a
coffee mug with my name on It.”
“And a supply of notepads that say From the Desk of Jack Mcgarvey.”
” He said, “It’s going to mean a salary cut. Won’t pay as much as
being on the street.”
“We’ll be all right.”
“Will we? I’m not so sure. It’s going to be tight.” She said,
“You’re forgetting Mcgarvey Associates. Inventive and flexible custom
programs. Tailored to your needs. Reasonable rates. Timely
delivery.
Better legs than Bill Gates.”
And that night, in the darkness of their bedroom, it did seem that
finding security and happiness again in the City of Angels might be
possible, after all.
During the next ten days, however, they were confronted by a series of
reality checks that made it impossible to sustain the old L.A.
fantasy.
Yet another city budget shortfall was rectified in part by reducing the
compensation of street cops by five percent and that of the deskbound
in the department by twelve percent, a job that already paid less than
Jack’s previous position now paid markedly less. A day later,
government statistics showed the economy slipping again, and a new
client, on the verge of signing a contract with Mcgarvey Associates,
was so unnerved by those numbers that he decided against investing in
new computer programs for a few months. Inflation was up.
Taxes were way up. The debt-strapped utility company was granted a
rate increase to prevent bankruptcy, which meant electricity rates were
going to climb. Water rates had already risen, natural-gas prices were
next. They were clobbered with a car-repair bill of six hundred forty
dollars on the same day that Anson Oliver’s first film, which had not
enjoyed a wide or successful theatrical run in its initial release, was
reissued by Paramount, reigniting media interest in the shootout and in
Jack. And Richie Tendero, husband to the flamboyant and unshakable
Gina Tendero of the black leather clothes and red-pepper Mace, was hit
by a shotgun blast while answering a domestic-dispute call, resulting
in the amputation of his left arm and plastic surgery to the left side
of his face. On August fifteenth, an eleven-year-old girl was caught
in gang crossfire one block from the elementary school that Toby would
soon be attending. She was killed instantly. Events unfold in uncanny
sequences. Long-forgotten acquaintances turn up again with news that
changes lives. A stranger appears and speaks a few words of wisdom,
solving a previously insoluble problem, or something in a recent dream
transpires in reality. Suddenly the existence of God seems
confirmed.
On the afternoon of August eighteenth, as Heather stood in the kitchen,
waiting for the Mr. Coffee machine to brew a fresh pot and sorting
through mail that had just arrived, she came across a letter from Paul
Youngblood, an attorney-at-law from Eagle’s Roost, Montana. The
envelope was heavy, as if it contained not merely a letter but a
document. According to the postmark, it had been sent on the sixth of
the month, which led her to wonder about the gypseian route by which
the postal service had chosen to deliver it. She knew she’d heard of
Eagle’s Roost. She could not recall when or why. Because she shared a
nearly universal aversion to attorneys and associated all
correspondence from law firms with trouble, she put the letter on the
bottom of the stack, choosing to deal with it last. After throwing
away advertisements, she found that the four other remaining items were
bills. When she finally read the letter from Paul Youngblood, it
proved to be so utterly different from the bad news she had
expected–and so astonishing–that immediately after finishing it, she
sat down at the kitchen table and read it again from the top. Eduardo
Fernandez, a client of Youngblood’s, had died on the fourth or fifth of
July. He had been the father of Sometimes, life seems to have a higher
meaning. lthe late Thomas Fernandez.
That was Tommy–murdered at Jack’s side eleven months before the events
at Hassam Arkadian’s service station. Eduardo Fernandez had named Jack
Mcgarvey of Los Angeles, California, as his sole heir. Serving as
executor of Mr. Fernandez’s estate, Youngblood had tried to notify